crimson tears

i.

we raise ourselves in a world substantially prone to destruction.

bloodshed and betrayal having been embedded into our skin before much else.

we breathe in the aroma of violence and sadism as we slink into our daily lives with smug exteriors, unaware of our consistent attempts to mask this brutality with the idea of artisanal surroundings and ethereal beauty.

ii.

sometimes i forget that we had to invent nail polish that changes color in drugged drinks and pocket knives disguised as lipsticks and key chains. 

sometimes i forget my death grip on that rusty swiss knife i carried back in ninth grade as i made my way up a dark, narrow stairway to my math classes. 

sometimes i forget that my teacher used to ask my male friend to escort me to my car when it was dark outside, and my sigh of relief when he did. 

sometimes i forget that my mother taught herself how to make homemade pepper spray. 

i forget my hands subconsciously reaching for my keys when i feel the presence of a man walking too close, and my male friends calling me out for being too paranoid. 

sometimes i forget the whistles and laughter from the group of boys in the corner of the street as i got on a rickshaw in my skirt after school (i was 11). 

and i forget the stares and the comments and the singing, the brushing of hands and skin in crowded places, too exact to be an accident. 

i forget the fact that i had to take self defense classes during summer school while my male friends were out playing football. 

i forget that my dad had to teach me how to use my knees and elbows in case someone attacked me. 

and sometimes, i forget that we still live in a world where a woman’s quickened paces and frantic heartbeats after 6 p.m. is just part of growing up.